I went on a walk today. I probably wasn't supposed to, but I just felt like it would clear my head. I can't be having those day dreams like I did yesterday. Chances are, I'll have one at the worst time possible. It'll kill me, no doubt. Walking down a make-shift sidewalk, I was led to a small hill that was completely covered in flowers. Any other person would simply ignore the sight, but I couldn't. I haven't seen such color in so long. All I've seen are browns. Browns and blacks and grays and whites. And reds. But these weren't any of those colors. These were yellow and green. The kind of yellow that my dresses were made of when I was young. Back when the world wasn't at horrible as it is now, my mom would use an old, sorry excuse for a Singer sewing machine to make clothes for me and dad. She didn't have any patterns or guidelines, and the dresses were not at all extravagant, but they were such pretty colors. I'd never wonder where she got the fabric back then, but I do now. You can't find anything like that now, can you? No clothing stores or craft shops. My mom would keep antique coupons and ads from magazines and newspapers in a safe place. I suppose she wanted to have some sort of memory of what life was like. Mom and dad were still young when the world was still in order. They used to talk about how they would go on dates and take walks together when they were still kids. I wish I could have been alive back then. To just...you know, go on a walk? Safely? I, at least, have some sort of self defense. Plus, my group isn't too far off.
I remember this one dress she made...she had this ancient trunk. A storage bin, I guess. There were piles of neatly stacked cloth squares and colorful ribbon. Dad would always tease her about her 'treasure chest', but I was always so fascinated how it was almost always full. When did she find the time to put more in it? Where did she find all the stuff that was in there already? I suppose it doesn't really matter now, does it? The dress though; she had taken multiple squares of different colored fabric and put them together like magic into this long, flowing sun dress with a bright orange ribbon in the middle to pinch it around my skinny waist. It was a kitchen-sink sort of dress, but I loved it. I wore it constantly. She had to fight with me to take it off for washing. My dad said it was beautiful, like the field of tulips he took mom to one time. I had never really seen a tulip before, other than in the ripped up Stein's catalog pages. Until today.
I stopped cold in my tracks at the top of the hill where I wondered to. These were tulips. I took a deep breath in and could hardly believe that such a thing could still exist on this God forsaken earth. I was certain that every evil had stomped all the beauty from the world. That no matter how brightly the sun shown or how many raindrops had hit the ground, that no such thing could grow. They were colors. Bright, brilliant, excitable colors. My eyes are so tired of the dingy scenery that I look at every single day. It's a wonder that every person hasn't lost all color as well. Maybe everyone lives in monochrome and I'm the only one who can still see color in the world. I sat down carefully next the the family of flowers, as if they would run and hide if I made a sound. I came face to face with the little things sprouting determinedly from the dirt. They are so much braver than me. So much braver than anyone. Even when the earth itself rejects all life, they refuse to stop living.
I was able to smell them. It seems silly, and I'm sure that anyone looking at me would scoff and pick me for an easy target, but I don't understand how anyone would pass something like this up. All of the stench...the grease, the garbage, the death and the blood that covers everyone. It reeks. Maybe everyone else is just used to it? They don't smell it anymore, at least, they don't see anything wrong or off about it all. I do, though. Dad used to say something to me when I was little. When I was in a hurry, or excited about something, or was impatient, he'd say “don't forget to stop and smell the roses”. I knew roses were flowers. Flowers with thorns. I'd always ask him why anyone would want to smell a flower that had thorns on its stem. He would giggle at me then, but I think I understand why now.
It's a sweet sort of smell...like honey, but not as musty. I just sat there for hours, staring at them and daydreaming. I thought maybe I could get it all out of my system then, but something tells me I can't just train it out of me. Something tells me that I don't really want to. So many people just want to forget things. They want to live mysterious lives with mysterious motives and keep their past a mystery to other people. Do they not understand that if they would just talk they would feel better? If the stopped trying to forget their awful past and just embrace it, they could see a future. A future is so much better to look at than the rotted mess of what happened before. We could learn a lesson from flowers, you know. No matter what kind of soil they come from and no matter how much blood and decay surrounds them, flowers still choose to live and grow, and they still stay true to what they are.
I went on a walk today. I probably wasn't supposed to, but I just felt like it would clear my head. I can't be having those day dreams like I did yesterday. Chances are, I'll have one at the worst time possible. It'll kill me, no doubt. Walking down a make-shift sidewalk, I was led to a small hill that was completely covered in flowers. Any other person would simply ignore the sight, but I couldn't. I haven't seen such color in so long. All I've seen are browns. Browns and blacks and grays and whites. And reds. But these weren't any of those colors. These were yellow and green. The kind of yellow that my dresses were made of when I was young. Back when the world wasn't at horrible as it is now, my mom would use an old, sorry excuse for a Singer sewing machine to make clothes for me and dad. She didn't have any patterns or guidelines, and the dresses were not at all extravagant, but they were such pretty colors. I'd never wonder where she got the fabric back then, but I do now. You can't find anything like that now, can you? No clothing stores or craft shops. My mom would keep antique coupons and ads from magazines and newspapers in a safe place. I suppose she wanted to have some sort of memory of what life was like. Mom and dad were still young when the world was still in order. They used to talk about how they would go on dates and take walks together when they were still kids. I wish I could have been alive back then. To just...you know, go on a walk? Safely? I, at least, have some sort of self defense. Plus, my group isn't too far off.
I remember this one dress she made...she had this ancient trunk. A storage bin, I guess. There were piles of neatly stacked cloth squares and colorful ribbon. Dad would always tease her about her 'treasure chest', but I was always so fascinated how it was almost always full. When did she find the time to put more in it? Where did she find all the stuff that was in there already? I suppose it doesn't really matter now, does it? The dress though; she had taken multiple squares of different colored fabric and put them together like magic into this long, flowing sun dress with a bright orange ribbon in the middle to pinch it around my skinny waist. It was a kitchen-sink sort of dress, but I loved it. I wore it constantly. She had to fight with me to take it off for washing. My dad said it was beautiful, like the field of tulips he took mom to one time. I had never really seen a tulip before, other than in the ripped up Stein's catalog pages. Until today.
I stopped cold in my tracks at the top of the hill where I wondered to. These were tulips. I took a deep breath in and could hardly believe that such a thing could still exist on this God forsaken earth. I was certain that every evil had stomped all the beauty from the world. That no matter how brightly the sun shown or how many raindrops had hit the ground, that no such thing could grow. They were colors. Bright, brilliant, excitable colors. My eyes are so tired of the dingy scenery that I look at every single day. It's a wonder that every person hasn't lost all color as well. Maybe everyone lives in monochrome and I'm the only one who can still see color in the world. I sat down carefully next the the family of flowers, as if they would run and hide if I made a sound. I came face to face with the little things sprouting determinedly from the dirt. They are so much braver than me. So much braver than anyone. Even when the earth itself rejects all life, they refuse to stop living.
I was able to smell them. It seems silly, and I'm sure that anyone looking at me would scoff and pick me for an easy target, but I don't understand how anyone would pass something like this up. All of the stench...the grease, the garbage, the death and the blood that covers everyone. It reeks. Maybe everyone else is just used to it? They don't smell it anymore, at least, they don't see anything wrong or off about it all. I do, though. Dad used to say something to me when I was little. When I was in a hurry, or excited about something, or was impatient, he'd say “don't forget to stop and smell the roses”. I knew roses were flowers. Flowers with thorns. I'd always ask him why anyone would want to smell a flower that had thorns on its stem. He would giggle at me then, but I think I understand why now.
It's a sweet sort of smell...like honey, but not as musty. I just sat there for hours, staring at them and daydreaming. I thought maybe I could get it all out of my system then, but something tells me I can't just train it out of me. Something tells me that I don't really want to. So many people just want to forget things. They want to live mysterious lives with mysterious motives and keep their past a mystery to other people. Do they not understand that if they would just talk they would feel better? If the stopped trying to forget their awful past and just embrace it, they could see a future. A future is so much better to look at than the rotted mess of what happened before. We could learn a lesson from flowers, you know. No matter what kind of soil they come from and no matter how much blood and decay surrounds them, flowers still choose to live and grow, and they still stay true to what they are.
-Bindi